Fearsome Brides

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “We need her to chase de Royans away,” he said. “You cannot forget that.”

  Arthos knew that. He was frustrated, now with a throbbing hand where the woman had hit him. He scowled at her. “This keep belongs to us,” he said to her. “We will hold it until de Puiset arrives and then we will turn the castle over to him. If you are not a traitor, then you will do what I tell you to do.”

  Emera knew she wasn’t going to obey the man, no matter what. “And if I refuse?”

  Arthos didn’t say anything for a moment. He turned around and looked through the mob behind him, seeing Jessamyn over against the wall where she had stumbled when the door hit her. He marched over to her and grabbed her by the arm, yanking her against him as she screamed.

  “If you refuse, I will throw your sister from the top of the keep and let de Royans’ soldiers pick up the pieces,” he declared. “What do you have to say now?”

  He yanked on Jessamyn again and she yelped as he hurt her. Gazing at Arthos, Emera didn’t doubt that the man meant what he said. He was part of this mob now and the mob evidently had rather radical ideas. Throwing a woman over the battlements would mean little to them but it meant a great deal to her. She looked at Cowling, who was still standing between her and the restless rabble.

  “Are you with them?” she asked, disbelief and pain in her tone. “Are you truly part of this madness?”

  Cowling’s expression suggested he wasn’t so certain. “Aye,” he said. “Bowes belongs to Henry, my lady. It is our duty, as soldiers sworn to Henry, to do all we can to regain control of the fortress.”

  It was probably the best explanation she’d heard about what was going on and she quickly weighed her options. If she resisted, they would kill Jessamyn and probably her as well. She didn’t want to die, not when life had shown her what true happiness could be. Sweet Mary, it was all so unfair! Her first true taste of love and happiness, and now this? She couldn’t decide if she was furious or devastated, but one thing was for certain – she had to survive and the only way to do that was to go along with the mob. Or, at least let them think she was. It was a gamble, but one she had to take.

  She tossed aside the fire poker.

  “Very well,” she said. “Release Jessamyn. I will not resist.”

  No one moved. Cowling turned to look at the group, still hanging on to Jessamyn. “Did you hear her?” he said. “Release Lady Jessamyn. The ladies will not be any trouble.”

  Arthos’ gaze lingered on Cowling. Instead of releasing Jessamyn, he passed her over to another soldier.

  “I’m not entirely sure you are with us,” he said to Cowling. “You seem to want to defend the women and especially Lady Emera. You know she’s thick as thieves with de Royans, don’t you?”

  Cowling didn’t need this group turning on him as well. Therefore, he tried to sound as neutral as possible. “Out of necessity,” he said. “She is the one who had us moved into the vault when de Royans’ knights moved us into the bailey. She has gone to fight for us against him and if that makes her as thick as thieves with him, then she did it to save your miserable life. Show the woman some respect!”

  He was booming by the time he finished, which shook up the mob. Most of the men weren’t truly wicked. They were weary and still recovering from wounds, but they were passionate about their loyalties. Bowes was meant for Henry and it was their duty to hold it for Henry. They’d listened to Arthos’ rhetoric for days now and he had them worked up, but Cowling’s shout had them seeing more clearly. The man holding Jessamyn let her go, pushing her back in the direction of her sister. Emera put her arms around her terrified sister.

  “Now,” Emera said steadily, “we will do what we can. We will still tend those of you who have not quite recovered from your injuries. We will prepare whatever food there is. We cannot fight but we will continue to tend you as we have.”

  Arthos didn’t seem too convinced but with Cowling standing there, a man he very much wanted on his side, he eased back a bit. But not completely; he pointed a finger at Emera.

  “You had better,” he said. “If you do not keep your word, then I’ll throw both you and your sister off the roof. I do not tolerate traitors.”

  With that, he turned around, shoving at the men who had filtered in behind him, herding them all out of the chamber and back into the big master’s chamber beyond. Emera and Jessamyn could hear things tipping over and crashing as the men rifled through the chamber before leaving. Those clothes of Brey’s that Jessamyn had left in the wardrobe found a home with some of the wounded Bowes soldiers.

  Cowling was the last one out of the chamber but he didn’t say anything to the women. He simply followed the mob out, silently, leaving a mood of confusion and fear in his wake. The mob didn’t shut the door to the stairwell when the left, instead, leaving it open wide and the ladies could hear the grumbling and shouting as the men descended into the great hall below, settling in for a long wait.

  Waiting for de Puiset to come and free them.

  When both chambers on the second floor were empty and quiet, Jessamyn turned to her sister in a panic.

  “We are at their mercy!” she gasped, tears overflowing. “What shall we do?”

  Emera wasn’t entirely sure. She was fairly certain the wounded didn’t trust her or her sister in spite of the fact that they had nursed a few of those men back from very serious injuries, Arthos included. She struggled against the terror that was claiming Jessamyn, for it would have been very easy to give in to it.

  “We do nothing,” she whispered, shaking her sister and forcing the woman to look at her. “Jess? Listen to me. We do only what we said we were going to do. We continue to help the wounded men and we do not do anything other than that. We must not give them a reason to mistrust or harm us. Do you understand?”

  Jessamyn nodded, trying very hard to calm herself. “I do,” she said, gasping. “I do, I swear it. I will not do anything foolish.”

  Emera patted her sister on the cheek as she released the woman from her embrace. “I know you will not,” she said. “Trust me when I tell you that Juston will come back to rescue us. As soon as he hears that Brey’s men have retaken the keep, he will come back. We simply need to stay alive until he does.”

  Jessamyn was calmer now and she sat heavily on the bed, contemplating their situation. “Do you really believe that?”

  “I do.”

  Jessamyn looked at her sister. “It seems strange that the man who killed Brey should come back to save us.”

  Emera’s lips twitched in an ironic smile. “I told you before, Jess,” she said softly. “He freed us from Brey’s tyranny. I will never look at him as anything other than that – our savior.”

  Jessamyn nodded, feeling shaky and weak as she lay back down on the bed. “Em?”

  “Aye?”

  “When you marry him, may I come live with you? I do not think I want to stay here.”

  It was an unexpected light moment and Emera grinned. “Of course you will come and live with us,” she said. “Keep the faith that we shall live through this and that we shall go to Netherghyll Castle. Juston says there is even a garden there.”

  “That is a lovely thought.”

  Emera thought so, too. As Jessamyn closed her eyes, simply to regain her strength after their harrowing experience, Emera went about putting cold water from the bucket into the iron pot over the hearth, stoking the flames to heat the water. All the while, however, she could only think of one thing – survival. In the beginning of Juston’s reign, she had done what she needed to do in order to survive. Now, she would do the same.

  She had no doubt that Juston would return for her and she wanted to live to see that day.

  God help them both.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  One mile south of Cotherstone

  To the west of the village of Lartington

  Armageddon had arrived.

  Again.

  Juston had taken the high ground against the advancing forces of Hug
h de Puiset, who fielded an army about the same size as Juston’s. Laying siege to a castle and fighting a battle in open warfare required very different tactics, but Juston was a master of both. Taking up position on a rise with a small valley and a frozen creek running at the base of it, he had been informed by his scouts that de Puiset was moving in from the north. Juston set up his defensive lines so when morning came and light fell over the landscape, de Puiset could clearly see that there was an army between him and his destination of Bowes.

  It would be a shocking moment for Durham, which is exactly what Juston intended.

  By morning, the sleet had stopped but the heavy, gray clouds hung in the sky, threatening to let loose at any moment. Juston, however, was ready. Shortly after their arrival to their prime position, his men had gone into a nearby forest and had cut down eight large trees, stripping them of their branches. Hemp ropes were anchored onto the ends of trees and they were carried over to the main defensive line where they were lined up, one next to the other, so they formed, literally, a line of trees.

  It was all part of Juston’s field tactics. The tree trunks were slathered in sheep fat that he’d had his men collect from the sheep that had been slaughtered at Bowes. Behind the line of fat-coated trees came Juston’s army, shoulder to shoulder with their shields raised and fitted together, seamlessly, for better protection for the men. Behind the shield men were the archers, protected by the shields. They, too, had the tips of their arrows dipped in fat and ready to ignite at Juston’s command.

  It was a fine line of precise men in Juston’s army as he sat astride his war horse behind the lines with Christopher, watching David and Marcus, Maxton and Kress and Achilles position the men. Gart was up in the front with the men who had the fatted trees, waiting for the command to ignite them. That command wasn’t long in coming; even though the trunks had been damp from the winter weather, the fat burned hot and heavy, sending black smoke into the air, and burning to the wood underneath that wasn’t damp. With eight massive logs burning heavily, Juston watched the approach of de Puiset’s army.

  “He will want to parler first,” Christopher said confidently. “Look at the way he’s holding his army; they are simply hanging back. He is making no attempts to put them into formation. We have caught him off-guard.”

  Juston was watching the army to the north as well. “As we intended to,” he said. “Now he sees that he must go through me to get to Bowes.”

  “De Puiset is not an aggressive tactician if, in fact, he is even riding with his army,” Christopher said. “It is my guess that his generals are in charge while he remains at Auckland.”

  Juston nodded. “That would not surprise me in the least,” he said. “We have been staring at each other for about an hour. I will give him a few minutes more before I send a messenger out to him. Find your brother and bring him to me. I will send him.”

  Christopher nodded, reining his war horse to the west where he could see David in the distance. Reaching his brother, a few words were exchanged before David headed in Juston’s direction, wrestling with his excitable, young stallion. Christopher wasn’t far behind him.

  “My lord?” David said as he reined his horse next to Juston. “You wanted to speak with me?”

  Juston nodded. “When Durham sends a messenger, you will meet the man in the middle. Our terms are as follows: de Puiset is to return to Auckland and remain there. He is not to come near Bowes and he is to keep any and all allies away from Bowes. Bowes is now held for Richard. If he does not agree to these terms, we will destroy him and his army this day, and when we are finished, we shall march on Auckland Castle and raze it. Make sure he understands.”

  David nodded shortly. “I will, my lord.”

  “I am sending you because you will not try to negotiate. If I send your brother, he will listen to their pleas and if I send any of the others, they will grow impatient and slay de Puiset’s messenger. You will go in, deliver the message, and be done with it.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  As David moved aside, awaiting the order to move forward to meet de Puiset’s messenger, Christopher reined his horse alongside Juston.

  “I will not listen to their pleas,” he said, miffed. “I am not so weak.”

  Juston cast him a long look. “Nay, you are not weak, but you have more of a heart than most,” he said. “What were we discussing at the conclusion of the siege of Bowes? How I lack mercy? I told you that too much of it can be deadly.”

  “I do not have too much mercy.”

  “You are the Great Communicator, Chris. You could negotiate God off his mighty throne. But today, I am in no mood for negotiations. De Puiset will fight or he will leave. There is no alternative.”

  Christopher had been insulted and complimented in close succession. Not having anything to say to Juston’s statement, he fell silent and continued to watch the distant army. Oddly enough, the clouds that had hung so low and heavy in the sky abruptly parted, leaving spots of blue sky beyond. Sunbeams descended to the wet, frozen earth, like glowing fingers, illuminating the landscape.

  The minutes passed as the clouds continued to part, leaving more and more blue sky, but on the earth below, there was suspicion and anxiety between the two opposing armies. Juston was nearing the command to send David out to deliver terms when he began to see movement in de Puiset’s army.

  As Juston and his men watched, the army of the Bishop of Durham began setting up offensive lines. The infantry was placed in three long lines that stretched about two hundred men each. One line was behind the other, meant to fill in should the line in front of them fail. Behind the infantry, the archers were brought in because Juston could see the standards that would deliver commands to the archers when lowered. Behind the archers, the cavalry took up position.

  “So they will not send a messenger to parler,” Juston muttered to Christopher. “It is their intention to simply go to war. I will, therefore, comply. Be ready to relay commands, Chris.”

  Christopher and David spurred their horses, charging off across the lines, preparing to ride out with the infantry. Some commanders, like de Puiset, preferred to send the cavalry in after the initial clash, but Juston didn’t – a man on foot was no match for a man on a horse and he liked to strike hard and heavy in the initial stages of a battle.

  When he saw Durham’s lines began to move forward, he waited until they had covered nearly half the field. He needed them in a prime position in order to effectively cripple them as he intended to. Once they hit the bottom of the small valley and began to make their way up towards him, he gave the command his men had been waiting for.

  It was time for the battle to begin in earnest.

  The fire logs, in a long line at the very front of his army, were rolled forward by the men in charge of them. Rolling, flaming logs began to gather speed as they rolled down hill, turning into massive flaming projectiles, and de Puiset’s army predictably began to run from them. Six hundred infantry turned and began to run as fast as they could, trying to escape the flaming logs, and that was when Juston let loose with his archers.

  Flaming arrows now filled the sky, hitting the fleeing men and anyone else who happened to be in range. Between the flaming logs and the flaming arrows raining out of the sky, de Puiset’s infantry dissolved into chaos. That was when Juston gave the command for his infantry to move.

  Trapped and burning, de Puiset’s army was already beaten when Juston’s infantry descended. The knights plunged into the thick of it, cutting men down, killing those who tried to run, and when de Puiset ordered his cavalry to finally engage, it was nearly too late – Juston’s cavalry, and his knights, had already thundered down the hill and were now engaging de Puiset’s army right on their lines. Beneath the blue sky with puffy clouds, a slaughter of the Bishop of Durham’s army was taking place with astonishing skill.

  Juston sat at the top of the hill, watching everything and scrutinizing every section of fighting men, looking for an issue or a weakness. He still
had about one hundred cavalry he’d held back, men he could send in quickly should the need arise, but all of his knights were engaged in a fierce battle. He could see the de Lohr brothers battling some of de Puiset’s knights, and he saw clearly when Achilles, who had evidently been knocked off his horse, charged through the mass of fighting men, snapping necks and driving his sword into anyone who was unfortunate enough not to get out of his way fast enough.

  It was a gruesome sight, but a satisfying one. Confident the battle was being won by his men, Juston nonetheless remained vigilant. He couldn’t become too pleased with the progression yet, but he was hopeful. If he could only end this today, he could head to Brough and help them chase off Carlisle. His men would be weary, of course, but they were strong and they were professional. He had little doubt that they could help Brough’s army triumph over Carlisle once and for all.

  “My lord!”

  Someone was calling his name and Juston turned to see some of his cavalry soldiers pointing off to the south. He reined his horse around because he couldn’t see what the men were pointing at, but he soon saw the approach of a single rider from the south, heading up the road towards them at breakneck speed. He pointed to the rider.

  “Intercept him,” he commanded. “Go!”

  Two cavalrymen spurred their horses onto the road, galloping towards the rider that was approaching them. Juston returned his attention to the battle, not particularly giving the incoming rider a great deal of thought, until several minutes later when the rider arrived. Juston heard his men muttering behind him and he turned to see that the rider was one of his own soldiers. It took him a moment to realize it was one of the men left behind to guard Bowes.

  Apprehension filled him. There was no reason why a soldier from Bowes should be here… unless Bowes was somehow in danger.

  “Why are you here?” he demanded. “What has happened at Bowes?”

  The soldier, cold and dirty, was out of breath. “My lord,” he said. “I have been sent to tell you that the wounded of Bowes, the men who had been kept in the vault, have risen up to take the keep. They have killed Sir Gillem and a few other men, and they now hold the keep for Henry.”